


I Taste You Every Time

by VeryTrulyViolet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cigarettes, F/M, Mentioned Jughead Jones, Post-Break Up, Self-Harm, So much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryTrulyViolet/pseuds/VeryTrulyViolet
Summary: "I feel you between my fingers with each cigarette I light and your spirit oh, it lingers, I taste you every time." In which Betty needs a little comfort with Jughead gone.





	I Taste You Every Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired mainly by the beautiful song "Spirit" by Molly Bush (available on spotify- highly recommend giving it a listen before, during, or after reading)

The pack sat untouched, where he’d tossed it before he walked out the door with no intention of returning, forgotten in his anger-fueled rush to leave. As days passed, she tried to clear away the reminders of him, things he’d left casually lying around her space: a book on the coffee table, pages of his latest work in progress covered in red ink scribbles, a t-shirt slung over the back of a chair or uncovered in the bottom of a drawer. Yet every time she came to the half-empty carton of cigarettes, she couldn’t bring herself to toss them into the trash. She simply moved them from place to place as she cleared the tables and counters. She would find herself staring longingly at the box, picturing him patting his pockets in search of them. They served somehow to simultaneously soothe her longing and stoke the anger that lingered after their unceremonious breakup.

She couldn’t help but slide into his abandoned t-shirt at night and soak in the smell of him. Once his scent faded from his clothing, the ache it had dulled in her roared more fiercely than ever. She laid in bed, finding herself torn between anger and desperation, longing for his touch, his taste, his smell. The anxiety his presence had once quelled in her roared as well. She laid in bed at night, her breathing ragged, inhaling deeply but unable to calm her racing heart. Finally she curled her fingers into tight fists, driving her nails into the soft flesh of her palms, hoping it would clear her mind like it had before his hands began to protectively unravel hers allowing her scars to fade.

Her eyes strayed to the pack on the bedside table, her mind flashing with images of him shrouded in smoke with a glint in his eyes. She ached for him to slide into bed beside her the way he used to- smelling freshly of smoke, hands still a little cold from stepping outside, pressing a small cigarette flavored kiss to her lips before drifting off into a calm sleep. She reached out tentatively, taking the box in her hand and turning it over, opening it and examining the few short sticks left inside. Sitting up, she examined the fresh red crescents indented into her palms. She lifted the box and inhaled the scent, memories of him swirling around her head. In a sudden rush, she threw back her blanket and went over to her kitchen, shuffling through the drawers until she found a lighter hidden in the back of one.

She went to a window, opening it and sitting herself on the ledge. Hesitantly, she took out a cigarette and held it between two fingers, staring at it, wondering if it could possibly bring her the same comfort he once did. She brought it to her lips and eased it between them with the careful attention of a first kiss, flinching at the bright flash of the lighter in the dim room. She could almost see the outline of his profile in the flickering of the flame as she held it to the end of the stick. She inhaled carefully and tasted the shadow of his kisses on her tongue, coughing gently as she exhaled, her unpracticed lungs not used to the sensation. The warmth in her mouth was almost familiar, it tasted something like him, something like the bitterness of tobacco. She lifted the cigarette back to her lips, more sure this time, holding the smoke in her mouth for a moment before exhaling with a sigh. In the haze, she could see the ghost of him in his leather jacket, a curl of dark hair hanging over his forehead, cigarette in hand, smirk on the corner of his lips as he exhaled, teasing her good-girl opposition to his vice.

After that night, when sleep refused to come, she would find herself by the open window. Lit cigarette in hand, letting the smoke curl into her blonde hair, unconcerned with whether the smell would permeate her apartment. Only occasionally would she lift it to her mouth, grateful to have a reminder of him pressed against her lips. Most nights, she simply sat on the window ledge, setting fire to his memories with every cigarette she held between her slender fingers. Burning them like a candle to remind her of home, breathing in the memories of him, letting the ghost of him linger with the smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking part in my first foray into this arena! Also thank you to my wonderful beta @Bugsbetty. More to come with a lot more Bughead infused into the narrative. Feedback is welcomed and encouraged :)


End file.
